


two hundred shekels

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Affection, Friends to Lovers, Hair Braiding, Haircuts, Long Hair, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: He snatches a piece of abandoned ribbon from Aziraphale’s desk and offers it to him. “Tie that back, will you, angel?”or 5 times Aziraphale got to play with Crowley's hair, and 1 time Crowley messed with Aziraphale's





	1. 5 Times (Aziraphale)

**1.**

Aziraphale, although he will not admit to such a thing in hopes of preserving his best friend’s spirits, is immensely disappointed when Crowley cuts his hair.

It happens fairly quickly after they settle into their eleven year plan; Aziraphale supposes that there are more important things to worry about than the length of Crowley’s ginger locks, but… well, he’s seen him in every hairstyle imaginable, and he can safely say long hair suits the demon better.

Except he doesn’t say it, because that’s quite rude, and he supports each one of Crowley’s decisions (morally give or take a few, given he _is_ an angel, and Crowley _is_ a demon, but that’s no bearing on the state of his hair.)

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed, angel,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale watches with some kind of emotion as the demon sweeps his fingers through the shortened remains of his hair. “Satan knows it’ll grow back. We’ve got at least eleven years left. Taking that into consideration, I practically _had_ to get a trim.”

So it was, but the rational explanation does little to assuage the general sense of– absurd– loss Aziraphale’s once again faced with over another _haircut,_ of all things. (Even though everyone knew haircuts were and had been, for some time, a general source of discomfort altogether.)

“Besides, split ends.” Crowley waves a hand, and then reaches over to snatch Aziraphale’s from where it’s resting at his side. _“Feel,_ though. There’s no gel on it or anything. The swoop is _natural.”_

Aziraphale relents. He sighs in long-suffering way as he gently prods that _swoop,_ as it were. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What?”

“‘Natural,’” he repeats. “You had it cut that way.”

Crowley grins, carefree and easy. “Says who?”

“Says _I,”_ Aziraphale volleys, and lowers his hand back to his side. But he smiles, and yes, he quietly mourns the loss of Crowley’s long hair again but keeps it to himself because it wouldn’t be a very nice thing to mention and, that asides, long or short, Crowley’s hair is very soft, and maybe Aziraphale doesn’t have much to complain about after all.

**2.**

His hair falls into his face as he reads, and Aziraphale finds himself endlessly distracted as Crowley pushes it from his eyes without seeming to notice. It isn’t fair, truly; Aziraphale’s let his tea go cold twice over now, simply from watching the demon’s hair gently framing his face.

It’s longer now, brushing against a stubbled jaw. Just long enough to fall into his face, Aziraphale thinks, and watches as Crowley tries to tuck a stray piece behind his ear again. It’s an in-between stage, and he isn’t certain if Crowley intends to grow it out again or if he simply hasn’t paid a visit to the barber of late. The shades of red catch in the waning sunlight coming through the bookshop window, and Aziraphale sighs before he can stop himself.

It’s a quiet sound, but it does distract Crowley from the books he’s been glancing over, enough for him to abandon his perusing and meet Aziraphale’s gaze across the room. “New books, I see,” he says, and Aziraphale lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he'd been holding again.

Such an innocuous thing, his new collection of books.

“Yes,” he agrees, and abandons his tea once more to pore over the books with Crowley.

The distraction barely lasts. Or perhaps it’s that his distraction comes back to distract him again, because Crowley eventually makes a soft noise of discontent when his hair once again droops into his eyes.

Aziraphale, finally, and perhaps too candidly, addresses the elephant in the room. “Is there another haircut in your immediate future, then?”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “Haven’t had the time.” He pushes it aside, again, and then seems to think better. He snatches a piece of abandoned ribbon from Aziraphale’s desk and offers it to him. “Tie that back, will you, angel?”

The ribbon is innocuous. He’d been using it as a bookmark. He only hesitates for a moment before he reaches to take it, and then carefully begins to gather Crowley’s hair to pull back from his face. He is careful, and his fingers are steady over the soft strands beneath his fingertips. The natural highlights are more pronounced when the light hits them with the gentle movement.

Such a silly little thing, his fondness for the color red.

Aziraphale finishes off the easy work, and then, gently, so not to undo the effort he’s put in, flicks the small ponytail he’s just put Crowley’s hair up into. “Charming.” He is teasing, because that is safe.

“Still doesn’t beat the French Revolution.”

Aziraphale laughs warmly, and twitches a finger to discreetly heat up his tea for the third time.

**3.**

Flyaways.

It’s as much of a technical term for it as Aziraphale knows, but his attention is arrested by the strands making their careless escape from the bun Crowley’s taken to wearing his hair back in, and they’re… well, beautiful.

He is a discerning angel, he likes to think. He has seen far more than most, and far, _far_ more than any human could ever lay claim to. He has walked the hallowed halls of Heaven itself, after all, and has delighted in the vast splendors of the world that their God has created. Aziraphale has seen a lot. He has standards, and he likes to believe that he has an eye for beauty.

Crowley’s hair is, and has always been, beautiful.

His penchant for idolizing the length of it aside, the color has always been mesmerizing in a way that the neutrals of Heaven has never been able to match, and the gentle wave of it, like ripples on the water of the ocean, and the feel, smooth as silk and just as ever so precious.

Yes, Aziraphale is fond of Crowley’s hair, and the flyaways are no exception. They are so very endearing, just as is the way Crowley’s eyelids droop as he has been drifting off, comfortable, beside him.

Before he can stop himself, Aziraphale reaches to smooth one of those escaping tendrils out of Crowley’s face. He doesn’t want it to disturb his rest, is all.

Crowley mumbles some near incoherent noise, a murmured “angel?” in halfhearted question.

Like this, Aziraphale thinks Crowley is so very precious as well. “Fixing your hair,” he says softly, and tucks the strands secure as Crowley dozes against his shoulder.

**4.**

Aziraphale’s heart has the most peculiar habit of pounding at the most comical moments; it’s almost as if he’s human, in times like these. Certainly he’s felt the rush of his pulse during a moment of fright or uncertainty. There’s been a few of those, even. And of titillation, reaching a particularly rousing climax of the latest crime thriller he’s picked up from the modern bookshop down the street.

But this is something different, and he feels equal parts ridiculous and brazen as he reaches forward a hand, and gently pushes his fingers into Crowley’s hair.

Crowley makes a noise, soft and surprised. 

Aziraphale smiles when he looks around at him. 

“What are you doing?”

“I,” he says, very matter-of-factly in a way that absolutely does not highlight how quickly his heart pounds, “am going to braid your hair.”

Crowley cocks a brow, amused skepticism barely there beyond dark glasses. It’s a look that makes Aziraphale’s heart beat faster still. “Oh, are you?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nods stubbornly, and begins to comb his fingers carefully through. “Now turn your head and let me work my magic.”

“I’ve _seen_ your magic,” Crowley says, but relents, and Aziraphale beams, and feels goofy, and hopeless, and human. Precious humans. Precious Crowley.

He’s not good at hair– he’s not had much practice, having never grown his own out– but he has a rousing go at a simple plait and feels hopelessly twitterpated when Crowley runs his fingers along the messy twines, and smiles, and says,

“Not bad at all, angel.”

**5.**

“You really like the long hair, huh.”

 _I like a lot of things,_ he doesn’t say. But he smiles, the kind of smile that feels threat to vanish into your hairline if only you keep feeling so _pleased,_ and twists a lock of Crowley’s hair around his finger. “Yes,” he says definitively, and does not cease toying with the demon’s hair.

It’s long again, longer now than it had been upon their arrangement to supervise the Antichrist. Not quite to the length of long ago Mesopotamia, but full, and thick, and curling loosely around Aziraphale’s fingers as he unabashedly pays it his idle-minded attention. It has been a long time. Their arrangement is a different one, these days, and Crowley’s hair stands stark against the cream of the pillowcase it’s splayed out against.

“You could’ve asked me to grow it out. At any time, you know. I would have.”

“I wanted you to base your decisions off of personal preference, not my crying need to admire it from afar.” Aziraphale doesn’t think he needs to explain this. It isn’t a proper explanation, anyway. _I was afraid to ask._ He doesn’t say it aloud, but expects Crowley has long since figured him out on that regard, as well. “Besides,” he adds, “it’s beautiful any way you look at it.”

“Aw.” Crowley grins. “Thanks, angel.”

Aziraphale’s breath catches with a tiny gasp. It’s infinitely comical– and trust that his wily demon misses no opportunity to mention as much– that he continuously finds himself breathless when he truly doesn’t need to breathe at all, all because of said wily demon and all of his gentlemanly temptations, laid bare for only him to see.

Crowley’s laughing again, just a little bit.

Perhaps Aziraphale is hopeless, but he doesn’t truly mind. Crowley’s eyes are striking, and his smile is blinding, and his hair is long and beautiful and stunning like a million, damning fires. He can feel the heat of him against his body, burning from the outside in. Aziraphale quakes, and then twists his fingers in Crowley’s hair, and urges him closer to kiss.

If he is damned, he doesn’t mind. Because, to Aziraphale, this is his own slice of Heaven.

_Whenever he cut the hair of his head–_  
_he used to cut his hair once a year because it became too heavy for him–_  
_he would weigh it, and its weight was two hundred shekels by the royal standard._

_– Samuel 14:26_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley in the second chapter! separate for pov change!


	2. + 1 (Crowley)

**\+ 1**

“Where’s your head, angel?”

He’s seen Az in every muddled mixture of emotion known to human, demon, and angelkind alike. They’re six thousand years old, Crowley knows what _sad messenger of God_ looks like. He’s got to say, it isn’t a very good look.

Aziraphale startles a bit from the question, and then lifts his head to smile at Crowley. A small, halfhearted sort of thing. Crowley’s lips twitch towards his own frown, but then Az replies, so he doesn’t get the chance to carry on questioning. “Apologies, Crowley.” 

“You’re so far away.”

It’s something, that. They are _angel and demon,_ two of the entities furthest away from each other by mere definition. Aziraphale is good. Crowley is bad. He knows this. But they’re sitting less than a foot apart on the sun-kissed park bench. The distance shouldn’t be _so_ insurmountable.

“I don’t mean to neglect you,” Aziraphale says, and he isn’t quite slouching– Az doesn’t _do_ slouching– but he still pushes himself up in the next moment, spine elongating, chin lifting, the tiny half smile still tugging his lips. “It has just… been a very long day.” Whatever progress he’s just made, he shatters it by slumping again.

Crowley’s concerned. More than he’ll let on, and he sits up straight this time himself and looks down at the angel sat next to him. “Problems at head office?”

“Something like that,” Aziraphale allows, and whatever it is, Crowley will be getting no more out of him than that on the matter.

Az gives a small sigh, and Crowley watches on in quiet distress.

For all of his years at being a demon, Crowley does remember how to be kind. It isn’t a difficult thing. He’d been like Aziraphale once, just… more… inclined towards the mischievous nature. (Something he still believes Lucifer had taken advantage of, back in the day. How was _he_ supposed to know what he was getting into, anyway?) As much as he refuses to admit to his angel, he does possess the ability.

He just isn’t fond of exercising it, these days, towards the majority of the population.

Az, of course, _isn’t_ in that majority. Crowley thinks he would do anything for him, and has thought that for some time.

He just… truly does not like seeing him sad.

“I’ve always wondered,” he says, shifting his arm from the back of the bench to slide his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair. The angel jumps a little, and leans a tiny bit in the other direction, but Crowley thinks it’s human reflex because he stops moving a second later. Crowley takes it as tacit permission. “Is that why your hair is the way it is?”

Aziraphale looks at him as though he’s sporting that pair of horns. “What?” he asks, confused, and his eyes flick up as Crowley lightly scratches at his scalp.

“Because you’ve got your head in the clouds all the time,” he says matter-of-factly.

To his joy, his tiny joke hits its mark.

Az looks almost comically surprised for a moment, with his wide, blue eyes and hair tousled by Crowley’s hand. (He still hasn’t removed his fingers from his hair. It’s quite inviting. He’s never said as much.) Then, he smiles, proper this time, and _laughs,_ like whatever happened today hadn’t happened. The tension thaws.

Crowley beams, bright and exhilarated.

“‘All the time,’ Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “really?”

“I’m just saying,” Crowley replies, “it looks like clouds, it feels like clouds.” It really is so soft. He drags his fingers so that it stands on its ends, and takes a moment to marvel at the angel looking quite so ridiculous. Then, he ruffles it up again, and continues. “All soft and poofy and _angelic,”_ he says, pitching his voice into a playfully mocking tone.

“Please.” 

Crowley grins wider when Aziraphale slumps just a smidge against his shoulder.

“It’s hardly special,” Az continues, and Crowley ruffles his hair a little harder.

“Says _who,_ angel?”

 _“I_ said, that’s– would you cut that out??” He’s broken character enough to devolve into something less articulate, someone who swats at Crowley’s hand in good humor even as he doesn’t lean away.

Crowley snatches his hand back before Aziraphale can smack him, all pleased amusement and probably looking very much the picture of _the cat who got the cream,_ as Az would say.

 _“Honestly,_ Crowley,” he huffs, but he’s still smiling, too, and the melancholy that had touched his eyes earlier hasn’t returned.

“All soft and light, angel Aziraphale,” Crowley monotones.

“I suppose you’re all dark and dangerous demon Crowley, then,” Az shoots back, and they smile at each other over the few inches of distance between them.

“Oh, I suppose so.” Crowley stretches, a little, and is loathe to lose the touch of his angel against his shoulder; however… “I think I’m feeling the vanilla flake tonight,” he says, and nods towards the ice cream cart a few feet away.

Az follows his gaze, nose pulling up with a tiny, _very_ put on grimace. “So I suppose I’m stuck with the strawberry lolly, then?”

“You’re not stuck with anything.”

“I’m stuck with _you,”_ Aziraphale retorts, and his smile is soft, and Crowley thinks that he doesn’t mind.

“Well, a good thing to be stuck with, then,” he says, and Az shoves at his shoulder. It serves to urge him up and he goes, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Back in a flash. What did you want?”

“Hm.” Aziraphale hums, leaning back against the bench. His hand’s gone to absently smooth at his hair as he looks thoughtful, and then his eyes light up as he, evidently, makes a decision. “Something with fudge today, I think,” he says, almost excitedly, like he doesn’t see the joke of Crowley getting vanilla and Aziraphale wanting chocolate, but maybe he doesn’t, in that moment, and Crowley doesn’t mind. Aziraphale’s excitement has always been _special,_ too.

“Human confections, coming right up,” he says, and he’s _glad_ that they’re stuck with each other, because he can’t imagine being stuck to anyone else, and he goes on his way to collect their respective ice creams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's hair hits everything for me (ginger? check. long? check. wavy? check.) and actually seeing fanart of him is what got me watching the show, but Az's hair looks so SOFT that I'm just. clenches fist. help


End file.
